Lindsay McKenna - Deadly Silence

Katie fished the keys out of the pocket of her red jacket. “He’s a hunk.”

Casey laughed. “Okay.”

Grinning, Katie said, “He’s thirty years old, black hair, green eyes, square face and about six foot two inches in height. He’s been on the fire department eight years, and he’s a lieutenant. Before Bev was murdered, Matt was a pretty outgoing dude. But now—” Katie opened the driver’s-side door “—he’s pretty serious, unreadable and just about as mute as his daughter.”

“Sounds pretty grim,” Casey muttered, frowning.

Katie nodded and frowned. “How do you get over your wife suddenly being torn from you? And on top of that, your child goes mute and is trapped inside her own trauma? Matt can’t fathom what she has endured. No one can.”

“Really bad stuff,” Casey mumbled, frowning. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her brown nylon Forest Service jacket. Her mint-green USFS truck was parked next to Katie’s vehicle.

“Gwen has said repeatedly that Matt needs psychological help, but he’s refused. He’s gummed up tighter than Fort Knox when it comes to his own grief. All we see is his guilt. He just hasn’t been able to open up and let out all that toxic grief,” Katie said. She climbed into her truck. “Maybe, Casey, you’re a ray of sunlight into his dark world. That was smart of you to take those photos.” She grinned and slipped the key into the ignition. The engine growled to life. “Who knows? Maybe those photos will not only help Megan, but Matt, too. Good luck!”

CASEY’S HANDS WERE DAMP as she stood at the door of a white, one-story, ranch-style house with green trim. Flexing her fingers, she couldn’t stop the tension that thrummed through her. Nervously, she smoothed her shoulder-length brown hair. The April morning was sunny with a cobalt-blue sky—a rare event for this time of year, she’d been told by her supervisor, Charley, who had given her two hours off to run over to Matt Sinclaire’s home.

Knocking a couple of times, Casey stood back and waited. In her left hand, she held her beat-up brown leather briefcase that had seen her through her university years. What was Matthew Sinclaire like? And how would Megan receive the photos of Hank, the red-tailed hawk?

The door opened.

Automatically, Casey held her breath for a moment. Her eyes widened as a man in a red T-shirt and jeans appeared. Instantly, her heart began a wild, unfamiliar beat. She looked up into his green eyes and felt consumed by his intent gaze upon her. To say that Matthew Sinclaire was a hunk was understating the obvious. The red T-shirt emblazoned with the words Jackson Hole Fire Department emphasized his broad, deep chest. His shoulders were powerful. He stood relaxed, body at a slight slouch; a man who was comfortable with who he was.

“You must be Ranger Casey Cantrell?” he asked in a deep voice.

Giving a nod, Casey rasped, “Yes, sir, I am. Are you Lieutenant Matthew Sinclaire?” She felt, suddenly, like a teenager in front of this guy. Clearly, Sinclaire was a man’s man, and it triggered something deep and hungering within her. Fingers tightening around the handle of her briefcase, Casey tried to appear just as relaxed as he seemed to be.

“Call me Matt. Come on in. Meggie is waiting for you.” He smiled a little and gestured for her to step into the brightly lit home.

Casey walked past him and into the house. It was near freezing on this April morning and she welcomed the warmth inside. She waited on a red and gray Navajo rug. Megan was standing at the other end of the foyer. The girl was dressed in a pair of dark green corduroy pants, a white blouse with long sleeves, her hair in a pair of cute pigtails. In her arms was Elmo, looking pretty bedraggled from a lot of care over the years. Casey smiled at her. She took off her ranger’s hat, which she hated wearing anyway, and quickly ran her fingers through her flattened hair.

“Hi, Megan. Do you remember me? I’m Casey.”

Megan broke into a welcoming smile and waved shyly at her.

Matt turned after closing the door. He saw Megan’s reaction to the woman ranger. Having a strong reaction to her himself, Matt tried to brush it aside. “I want to thank you for coming over on a Saturday morning, Ranger Cantrell.”

“Call me Casey,” she asked. Looking up at Matt, she felt her heart spring open like a flower in bloom. Sinclaire’s face was oval with a strong chin, broad forehead and crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Casey knew he was thirty years old from the gossip she’d gotten down at Quilter’s Haven, where Gwen Garner had filled her in on this handsome firefighter. It was so easy to drown in the dark green of his intent eyes. He seemed to Casey to be an eagle, his pupils huge and black as he studied her, a slight tilt to his head. She was only five foot seven inches tall compared to his six foot two, but she was built with good, strong bone, no wilting lily of a stick-like woman. Still, Casey felt overshadowed by Matt Sinclaire’s powerful presence. There was an unspoken care that radiated from him toward her. Casey could see why this man, when in his firefighter gear, would ooze a sense of protection toward anyone in his safekeeping.

Matt gave her a tentative smile. “My friends call me Matt. Come on in. I’ve got coffee waiting for us in the kitchen.”

“Oh…” Casey murmured, “I was just going to drop these photos off, Mr. Sinc—I mean, Matt. I’m on duty today and Charley gave me some time off to deliver these to Megan. I don’t want to intrude on your weekend.”

“You’re not.” Matt held out his hand. “Give me your jacket, Casey. I know your boss, Charley. We’re good friends. I know he won’t care if you have a cup of coffee or two with me and Meggie.”

Hesitantly, Casey slid out of her warm brown nylon jacket and handed it to him. She saw Megan watching her, her eyes shining as much as they had in class five days earlier. “I’ve brought the photos of Megan holding Susie,” she offered. Dressed in her ranger uniform—a tan long-sleeved blouse and dark green trousers—Casey felt very unfeminine. She watched Sinclaire move. He possessed a cougar’s grace, bred from being an athlete. Casey knew firefighters lifted weights and jogged daily to stay in tip-top shape for the demands of their dangerous job. Still, she had to tear her gaze from his powerful back and narrow hips as he hung her coat up on a wooden peg next to the door. She gulped, and her mouth went dry. What kind of reaction was she having around this stranger?

“Come on in,” Matt invited her warmly, reaching down to take his daughter’s small hand that was swallowed up in his.

Quickly looking around, Casey saw a huge wood-stove in one corner with flames dancing behind the glass window. The red-and-yellow cedar floor was waxed and gleaming. There were Navajo rugs here and there. The room was painted a pale yellow; the drapes at the main window were brown with red flowers and green vines woven into the fabric. To her, this was a man’s home. There were no photos or pictures up on the walls. There were no green, living plants anywhere, either. It felt like a shell to Casey, not exactly alive or nurturing. She wondered if their home had exuded more of a woman’s touch when Bev was alive.

Following father and daughter into the kitchen, Casey saw Megan sit in a chair with Elmo in her lap. Her father had given her a glass of orange juice. “I feel badly for interrupting your breakfast,” Casey murmured, standing uncertainly in the doorway. The kitchen was white with blue curtains over the window. The smell of frying bacon filled the air.

“Don’t worry about it,” Matt murmured. “Just take a seat opposite Meggie here at the kitchen table. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”